The Remake by Stephen Humphrey Bogart Page B

deport it again,” she told him.
    “That shows how much you know. They haven’t brought anybody through Ellis Island for years.”
    She sipped again and made an even worse face. “This stuff tastes plenty old enough.”
    But before he could fill up his lungs and hit her with a snappy comeback she flung a white paper bag at him. “It’ll probably go down easier with one of these,” she said.
    R.J. opened up the bag. “Cinnamon rolls,” he said. “Doll, I just promoted you to special executive assistant.” He took a big bite and a sip of his own coffee. It tasted all right to him.
    After the cinnamon roll, the coffee, and even the verbal sparring with Wanda, R.J. began to feel that this might not be a completely awful day. Okay, he was a murder suspect and Casey was gone. But life went on and he had a job to do.
    A few minutes after nine he settled himself at his desk with more coffee—ignoring Wanda’s looks—and dialed Kelley’s parole officer in Connecticut.
    They’d told him the party he wanted was an H. Gillam. After three rings, a bored-sounding woman answered. “Gillam,” she said.
    “My name is R.J. Brooks, Ms. Gillam,” R.J. said, swallowing the last bite of cinnamon roll. “I’m a private investigator in Manhattan.”
    Ms. Gillam gave a long sigh. “Okay,” she said.
    Great, R.J. thought. Nine A.M., and it’s attitude time already in Connecticut. But out loud he said, “I’m trying to confirm the whereabouts of a William Kelley.” After a short pause with no response, he added, “I was hoping you could help me.”
    “Uh-huh,” said Ms. Gillam.
    R.J. began to think that maybe he was wrong, maybe this really would be a terrible day after all. He didn’t know this woman from Adam and here she was pulling the Go-Ahead-Make-My-Day crap on him. R.J. was on the point of trying something cute, like asking for her supervisor’s name, when all of a sudden Ms. Gillam giggled.
    “Hello?” said R.J.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I tried to hold myself together, but this is just—” and she giggled again.
    “What is?” R.J. asked. Hostility he could at least understand. It was one of the perks of his tough trade. But parole officers are supposed to be tough, too, and to have one giggle at him was disturbing. He didn’t know what to think.
    “What was he really like?” Ms. Gillam asked.
    R.J.’s head was spinning. Maybe there was something wrong with the coffee, he thought. “What was who really like? Kelley?”
    “No. You know,” she said coyly.
    “Uh, no. No, I don’t know.”
    “Your faa -ther,” she bleated.
    Well, thought R.J., you never know where you’re going to find one. He was only a little surprised that she had recognized him by his name alone. But it was happening more and more. As for the rest of it, well—
    He’d been plagued by his father’s fans his whole life, and the most he could say about them now was that it didn’t bother him anymore. He’d gone through a phase where the mention of his father’s name made R.J. furious, then fiercely protective, then paranoid, bitter, amused, and finally tolerant. R.J. knew who he was now, and he wasn’t competing with his old man, and the only thing about the whole fan business he still found interesting was who turned out to be one. Like a Connecticut parole officer who was supposed to be tough.
    “He was a great guy,” R.J. said, giving her stock answer number seven, “but he drank too much.”
    “Maybe that was part of his greatness,” Gillam offered.
    “Sure,” R.J. said. “Booze makes you smart, everybody knows that.”
    “Because he really was great,” she went on, ignoring him. “The greatest. Unbelievable. But you know that. Whoo,” she said with another giggle, “I can’t believe I’m talking to you.”
    “I’m having some trouble with it myself.”
    “Because I have seen your picture in the papers over here and you look just like him, did you know that?”
    “No, I never noticed that,”